Bloodred Demi
The door clicks open, the abrupt sound making him jump. He walks in, the smell of roses follow. He grabs his hair, what once was blonde and curly now matted with blood. He clenches his teeth as his head is yanked back. Another shot, another swirl of emotion, and more memories are wiped clean.
He blacks out before the real torture can begin.
He comes to feeling drained, and yet more himself. He is aware, his vision does not falter, and he breathes in through his nose. A semblance of control is back, and he feels more sane than he has in months. He closes his eyes, and forces himself to remember.
He knows what they're doing, of course. They're deleting, erasing, depleting all of his good memories. The ones they want to keep are being warped, manipulated so they can change him. Have him do their dirty work. He hates that it's working. He has been fighting, but what kind of battle is it when you're fighting against a chemical change in your own body?
Whenever he has these periods of sanity and awareness, he focuses on all of the things he without a doubt remembers, and tries to memorize every detail. The color of the icing on the tiger lily cookie. Cinna's eyeliner. Her mockingjay pendant. The shape of her teeth as she smiles. Her hair, long and wiry, yet soft as it flows through his hands. Her eyes. Her lips.
Then, as quickly as it came, the lucidity is gone. And he's alone, with his cruel, false thoughts.
He hates her. He hates them.
It didn't have to be like this. It didn't. He could have stayed, they could have prevented it, They could have they could have they could
Her face flashes, her grin marring the walls, searing the insides of his eyelids. She did it. All of it. They want me to see, to know what she did. The games, the Quell, she's not what they think she is, the mutt, how can they not
She did it, they turned her
Her eyes are wrong
She did it
She is
She
She
He awakens to a female screaming. His right brain and his wrong brain immediately are overwhelmed by whether he should be happy or grief-stricken by this, but before he can decide this, he realizes it's Johanna. His confusion is replaced by sympathy. They share close quarters and often their tortures follow one another. An invisible bond they share.
He hears the electricity and flinches as she wails. His will start soon, he knows.
A door opens, and a man with a blank face enters. At least it's not Snow. His sessions are the worst.
The man reaches into his back pocket, and for a moment he thinks it's going to be the syringe. But he pulls out a blade instead. He is disturbingly relieved.
"Where are the rebels," the man asks, monotone.
"I have no idea what you're talking about." The knife cuts shallow, but long down his forearm. He smirks.
"What is their next move?"
"Wouldn't you like to know." A cut down his chest this time. A bit deeper, and blood starts to flow freely. He winces, but he stares defiantly ahead.
The man frowns. He reaches forward and grabs his matted and bloodied hair, yanks his head back, and drags his blade across his throat. He can't suppress a groan of pain this time.
The man smirks. Then the stabbing begins.
He wakes to the sound of his own screaming. He knows something is wrong. His thoughts are slanted, more warped than they have been in weeks. He feels nauseous, and the room spins as smells and shapes that don't exist drift and stab their way into his consciousness.
He grips the side of the cot, but it does nothing to appease the spinning, his stomach churns again, and he hears Johanna screaming again. It's too much, all too much, and he turns and vomits over the side of the bed. It's only bile, and it burns his insides as he heaves and chokes, sick of the pain and sick with want and rejection and all the complicated emotions he can barely remember.
By the time he's done heaving, he knows he's gone. Thoughts erratic, he can only brace himself as his muscles contract and his mind starts to vanish-
The smell of bread and alcohol and woods and everything he used to be overwhelms his senses, clouds his thoughts
They are in bed together, her body curled into his, and he leans close as she whispers something, but he can't make it out as she twists and she sinks her teeth into his neck, her eyes shining with hate and cruelty
I never loved you, she whispers, her mouth covered in his blood
Drips echo off the walls, and he feels secure even through the burning fever, it's all okay, she's here, but she turns and buries a blade into his stomach, mocking him, parroting love sighs and expressions of trust, a cruel jape
Flash to the beach, they run hand in hand, kicking dirt up, and suddenly she's gone, and the jackers are back, stinging and laughing as her voice echoes around him, you did this, this is all on you
His sanity flashes before him and he sees a mockingjay in the corner of the room, wing broken and burnt, and it lets out a cry, her voice chills him to his core as she screams his name
He throws the back of his head against the wall, blood matting the back of his skull, but it doesn't matter, none of it matters, because she never loved him, it wasn't real, none of it happened, it was all a lie
All his life, a lie
She tried to tell him
I never loved you
She tried
I never
She
I loved you
She
I love you
Katniss.
Based off of Peeta Mellark from the Hunger Games
Story by
STARKProfile by
MidnightShadow
