Spotlight Fever [Chaos]

I stifle a laugh that turns into a giggle when he pulls on the shirt, the bottom of it literally almost by his kneecaps. "Classy," I say, trying to keep a straight face and failing. I watch as one of the girls from his class pauses in the doorway, her thick hair covering half of her forehead from sight. Must be a strange new trend. It's strange to see this people talk of family and dinners and home and my smile vanishes completely.

I feel the urge to land a swift kick at the door of the locker in front of me. It would make me feel better but probably cost me my job. Which in the long run wouldn't make me feel all that great, so the kick would probably be counterproductive. So I chew at the inside of my cheek, concentrating on opening a new gash.

I'm pulled back to reality when a question appears to be directed at me. I shrug nonchalantly. Lucky bloke probably has a warm, loving family to go home to. "Yeah, why not, my mum is probably waiting for me back home. We're having turkey tonight, I wouldn't want to be late anyway." I don't know why I am lying so much. I couldn't stop myself from speaking the words I wish were true. I've no mother, no house and no turkey to go to. But for some reason I don't want him to know.

"So, you're Jules?" I ask, shouldering the thin satchel that contains my bearings: some coins, a kernel of an apple, three buttons that I found on the street, a jumper and a crumpled picture that apparently depicts my mother and father. I don't know what happened to them. I can't remember. There was heat and then nothing. That's all I know.

The asylum did not help me remember. I shiver subconsciously as I recall the hours of being shackled to cold, steel tables. The "doctors" would inject something from a syringe into my arm and everything went fuzzy and freezing cold. When I wake up I'm always back in my room, in a chair, staring at this mirror. I know they can see me and that they want to see what the drug they injected me with does to me. Usually it was horrible, sometimes it was pleasant.

"Well, I'm Penny."

I force myself not to look too envious when we approach his home. After all, I am supposed to be from a well-to-do family as well, like most people in District Three. He does not know that I'm an orphan. He does not know anything about me. That alone brings a wicked looking smile to my face. He doesn't see it because he is preoccupied by a letter that seems stuck to the wall. I don't need to read its contents to know that his parents are gone. Poor little rich boy, a voice in my head sings sweetly. I try to tune it out and focus instead on the matter at hand.

This is perfect! I can stay warm for another few hours, eat something and maybe pocket one or two objects of medium worth... one that his family is not bound to miss.

I edge into the house, careful to suppress a groan when I spy a portrait hanging on the wall that must be worth more than my entire salary for a year. "I would love some hot chocolate," I say instead, keeping my voice chipper and healthy. "So, where are your parents?" I ask, going for polite small talk. It's what all the sophisticated aristocrats of the District do, don't they? I listened in on some of the girls in the dance studio. They even talked amongst themselves in such a posh sounding voice, mimicking the Capitolite accent.

"They leave you alone often?" I heard him shout out in anger just a moment before, so I know it to be true. I don't understand how parents can leave their kids all alone, but I know that it's like that with a lot of families. I just wish I knew how my own parents looked like... or how we used to live... or why I am who I am today. "I don't have to be home for a while, anyway."

I have to bite down on my tongue hard in order to stop myself from saying something offensive. Imagine that? Parties all the time. I find myself wondering how life is for this boy who literatlly has everything he needs: a family, a house and enough money to take ridiculous dancing courses. But of course I don't voice any of that. It's not my place to speak my mind, not when he's just invited me to his house. Of course the poor boy has no idea that I come from nothing.

Gratefully, I catch the chunk of chocolate he chucks my way. I don't manage to contain my moan ofecstasy-like pleasure - though it sounds somewhat offensive - as the rich chocolate flavour explodes in my mouth. I haven't tasted something as sweet in ages. Chocolate for some reason has always been a treat for the rich. Unfortunately I just need money to survive and can't spend it on something like chocolate.

I find myself opening my mouth to ask for another piece, but my notion is disrupted when he speaks again. Feeling rather disgruntled, my mouth snaps shut again and I lick the chocolate-residue off of my fingers, greed forcing me to forget proper etiquette. I pause when I hear what he is saying. "Like what?" I ask, curious as to why he should be messing things up. He seems potent enough, but who knows.

Yes! I can hardly believe my luck when he asks for me to get something from downstairs. An excuse to scope out my surroundings and maybe, just maybe pocket some things. I mask my eagerness and just smile. "Of course! That's no problem at all. Top shelf, yes?" I grab the lantern between my fingers and turn to leave. But I freeze when he mentions his fathers study. Is he playing with me? Or is there something of value in there? "Don't worry, I'll stay out." I nod, almost impercceptibly and leave the comfort of the kitchen.

I pass the door to the study. It seems like the door to a study. Despite by initial curiousity, I just hush right past it. That can wait until later. The basement is remarkably colder and damper than the upstairs and I find myself shivering. Making sure not to make too much noise, I tread down the stairs to the basement carefully. Suddenly I'm afraid. I can't even explain to myself why, but there is something terrifying about the darkness of this place. I scowl. Why should I be afraid now? I sleep alone, always in the dark and I am never afraid. Why now? So I walk on, taking care to watch my step. I spot rows and rows of shelves, stacked high with almost every kind of food imaginable.

My mouth waters at the very prospect of devouring it all. But I supress my greedy thoughts and discover the cinnamon on the top shelf. Reaching up, I pull the small packet down and look it over once. Yes, cinnamon. I spot something that looks interesting further up on the the shelf and carefully clamber onto the lowest shelf in order to reach even higher up. I tug at a bag of something and discover it to be a packet of rice. I could always need that. I stuff it into my satchel and turn back to walk up the stairs. But the door fell closed after I walked down. I'm trapped. Oh, no. Then, because I am unable to think of anything else, nor am able to form a coherant, sensible thought, I scream as though I am on fire.

OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGodohmyGod... My heart is in my throat. I've long since tossed the useless lantern aside. Its glow appears suddenly cold and daunting to me. I've been this place before. I can see the outline of the door where the light manages to squeeze its way through the cracks underneath. Everything else is dark. I'm so alone. Terrible screams pierce the air, I hold my hands against my ears, determined to shut out the screaming. That's when I realise that it is I who is doing the screaming. That doesn't make it stop.

I hear wailing voices in my head, feel cold, sterile hands stuck in sticky gloves against my bare arm. They hold me down as I let out another scream, my arms reaching out and in one swift motion, slashing my nails across the owner of the hands' face. He gives a howl of anguish and then more shouting, more cold hands pressing against me. My face, my arms, my torso, my thighs. I spot the shiny, sharm point of a needle and struggle helplessly against the bonds holding me in place. I don't want that. I don't want the terrible, neverending nightmares, the visions of horror, the darkness.

"No... no! I don't want it! Please! Please," my screams gradually die to a low, soft whimper as a gentler hand touches my arm. I'm alarmed, not used to this touch and promptly backhand the perpertrater. Upon his cry of shock and most probably pain, I withdraw hastily, pulling my arms in a protective gesture around myself. My eyes are opened wide and still unseeing, shifting back and forth between the now open door and the person in front of me.

My breath leaves me in a whooshing sound and I gasp, moving on my knees towards the person I just hit. I'm clearly sorry but I don't feel the need to apologise for my actions. I wasn't myself. I can't even explain what just happened. These things get sparked now and again, but I never am able to explain myself or my impulses.

So it is without protest that I follow him and sit down on the couch, still not removing my arms from their position. I don't want anyone to touch my arms that are covered by rough pinpricks from the endless syringes that were forced upon me day after day. I don't want to remember what happened, so although I shake my head when he asks me if I am alright, I don't elaborate on the matter.

I spot the white of a gauze twisted around one of his fingers. My eyes widen in alarm at the sight of blood and if possible, I edge even further away from him. I eye the cut finger with apprehension. "I found the cinnamon," I say with a toneless sounding voice. "I should probably go now," I whisper, though my hot chocolate is still untouched. "My... uh... mother... should be waiting for me."