.: inner fire - {patricia} oneshot - part ii: shell :.

tw: sex trafficking, sexual abuse, substance abuse

When I am in the Capitol, I often feel removed from reality. I drift, living in this grotesque cocoon of overindulgence and lavish extravagance. I stare at screens until it's gone midnight and my eyes are tired of all the blue-light, weary of watching child murdering child, year after year. Always the same over-the-top commentary lines, inappropriate laughing and punditry on uncensored murder.

I am on edge, my breath raw in my chest, staring as Francis is cut down by Diana Sayers. Always the same. I promised myself long ago that I'd never get attached to my Tributes, that was the advice that I got on my Victory Tour from more than one fellow survivor. They were right, you can't get attached. Lethe and I, we're the bucks in the trend, the only living Victors in Five. All you can do is give them comfort and advice, and hope they make it. But they never do. They never fucking do.

My fists clench as they show replay after replay of his death, being cut down from dynamic angles, or in slow motion, all as the Capitol commentary team conjure up dramatic superlatives to describe the way his blood paints the dirt. My heart is thundering in my chest.

Claudius Templesmith's snooty voice comments snidely on Francisco Bloom's slim chances of ever winning as his cannon booms to the crocodile tears of his co-commentator Flickerman, who's fake sadness bleeds through the screen. I finally snap, and grab the ceramic bowl on the table and throw it overhead it at the glass cabinet, which smashes completely and falls in on itself. What do they know of loss, of sacrifice? They shouldn't get a voice. They shouldn’t be able to talk about that shit.

I stand panting in the middle of my training centre quarters, alone. My stomach churns and my knees feel weak as I walk barefoot through the open plan living space. I place shaky palms down on the marble kitchen surface and force myself to exhale slowly two three four. I need to calm down, I’m not in control when I’m in this state.

I’m tired of being angry. All the time. From the moment I wake up to me falling asleep on a sticky leather sofa thousands of miles from home, I am angry, and it is exhausting. I have nothing left to project except blind rage. I feel control slipping away from me each day.

I don't feel comfortable in my own skin anymore either, like it's not even mine. In many ways, it isn't now. People say you're supposed to cry in situations like this, they encourage it, say it's normal. So why aren't I crying? Why do I just feel nothing. Empty. A shell.

What the Capitol have made me do in the past year, it’s drained the fight out of me, the perpetual need to stand up for myself, to survive. I suppose that’s what they wanted. Well, they’ve won.

I’m struggling to breathe, and the gaping wound in my chest is aching more and more by the day. I take slow steps across the kitchen and into the living room, where my jacket is lazily draped over an armchair. I reach into the raggedy pocket and pull out my pain meds. I read the label through tired eyes: one dose every four hours. I look up to the ornate clock sitting above the fireplace, and note that I took two pills an hour ago.

Fuck it.

I take another two, because the pain is too much, and the meds help. I wash it down with a swig from a whiskey bottle and slump heavily into the armchair. I sit and stare at the floral wallpaper for a long time, thinking how much easier this all would have been if Galaxy had let go when that sword had been driven through my chest, and let me fall back into the pool of molten lava.

"Here's to you, Galaxy." I raise the bottle, trying to focus on the floral patterns, but they're fast blurring, "I hope you're enjoying the peace."

I envy her, and all of them.

Dread washes over me as I remember what tomorrow is.

I have to let him do those things to me, again. Maverick. I feel sick.

I remind myself of the alternative. Of what would happen to Rose. I would rather go back in the arena than do this, at least then I'd still be me, and not this... this inhuman object. At least I'd have control over myself; a choice.

I'm so angry, so so fucking angry. Because the worst part is, I could have stopped it, I could have walked away, or said no, but I fucking didn't. I let it happen, because I knew what would happen otherwise.

"Patricia? I heard a smash?" Phelix comes running in from next-door. I can't bring myself to look at the boy.

It's never the victim’s fault, you should never blame yourself. You should never be made to feel guilty, or small, or at fault if you're assaulted, or abused, or anything. Yet here I am, sat drinking neat whiskey, buzzed up on painkillers and hating myself because this is my fault. I knew the game, I knew the risks, and I ran my fucking mouth, time and time again thinking there would be no consequences.

And I shouldn't blame myself, but I do. I do blame myself.

"Are you okay?"

All I can see is his face. I could have ripped his throat open - I should have, but all I could see was that Peacekeeper back in Five with his assault rifle, standing in my living room. All I could see was Rose. They never gave me a choice.

"Please get out." My voice is small.

Phelix Turner stands in the corner of my blurred vision, his slender frame and moppy black hair tilts awkwardly as he moves towards me.

"Do you want me to get Lethe for you?"

"Get out. Now." I breathe, still staring at the stupid twisting floral wallpaper weaving up the red wall.

He stays there for a few seconds, then like a phantom in the night he is gone, leaving me in silence. Silence bleeding at all four corners of my shortsighted blur. My breathing is loud, and I feel myself slipping away, falling into a deep sleep. It would be nice to stay there.