Lying down on the bed, completely mummified in sheets. A weak sliver of moonlight peeked through the curtains, but otherwise, the room was dark. Her gaze was intently focused on the television, eyes open wide and staring but not taking in and registering any of the images. She clutched the blanket tightly, fingernails leaving long tracks in the smooth silk of the fabric. She was trying not to focus on anything, to blank out her mind. She blinked rapidly, clearing her fading vision. Think of nothing.

But once she thought of this task, instantly it turned herculean. It was impossible to evacuate her mind with all the stray tendrils of thought poking through the walls she built around her. Brick by brick, they tore down the walls, Sleeping wasn't going to do her any good either – in fact, she was happier staying awake throughout the night, accounting for the dark circles under her eyes. When she fell asleep, she would be vulnerable, and then they would come. They, who had lingered in the mortal realm, lurking in the deepest shadows of her heart. They, who wanted to exact their much anticipated revenge on her.

Because I killed you. And you. And you. The efforts of all you 23 have gone to waste, because of me. I am the one at fault. I am the cold-blooded murderer. I am the serial killer.

Finally she could stand it no more. The hologram powered off with a little mechanical whine. She stared at the carpeted floor, where a patch of white stood out amongst the black. But her eyelids felt so heavy – surely it would be all right to close them for a second–

Gradually, her eyelids closed, and the white slit of light tunneled away as she flew backwards in a dizzying spiral. Struggling to open her eyes, she thrashed around – but what was there to thrash around? She couldn't feel her eyelids. She couldn't feel her hands. She couldn't feel her self. What was she? Where was she? Who was she? Was she an ethereal being, made to last in limbo for eternity? What was her purpose?

Imaginary lips and teeth mouthed the words for her. Opening and shutting rapidly, the mouth formed words that rang out through the limbo she was in.

"I – I am Johanna Mason, from D–District 7," it breathed loudly. "V–Victor of the Se–se–seventy-first H–Hunger Games–"

District Seven. Lumber. Wood. Trees.

Trees.

Suddenly, the world materialized around her. From the void that surrounded her ethereal consciousness sprung forth a single colour. It was the precise shade of a newly budded leaf, unveiled from its protective coat, out to face the cruel world. But for just this instance, it was almost a heavenly moment to see this colour, unmarred by the anarchy and chaos held within the world. As her newfound eyes watched, green spewed out profusely from the distant horizon, filling her entire line of sight with it. As the green webbed around her, parts changed shade, to the colour of freshly mown grass, to the colour of withering leaves, to the colour of soil that she was treading on. Trees sprung up magically from the earth within a matter of seconds. Birds with a rainbow of plumages materialised in a burst of pyrokinetic colours.

And she realised that her self had returned. She was treading on earth now. She could smell the scents of the forest, from the tanginess of the carpeted forest floor to the crisp scent of mint leaves. She could feel the humidity of the forest, feel vapour stick to her dry skin. She could hear the crackling of leaves underfoot as she trod on them, the twittering of birds as they composed beautiful melodies above her head. She could blink her eyes, feel them take in all the scenery in front of her.

Mint leaves – Forest floors – Rainbow birds–

Oh no.

She clamped her hands over her mouth and bit hard on her tongue to prevent her from screaming. She could taste the distinct flavour of iron in her blood that ran freely in her mouth, dribbling down her chin onto her shirtfront.

She commanded her newfound legs to move, to run away from this dreaded place, but no sooner did she start moving when she tripped over a root and ended up back at square one.

On her hands and knees, she crawled away. All she wanted to do was to be as far away as it was physically possible. Her fingers dug into the earth as she clawed her way forward. Despite ferns that had edges as sharp as razor blades marked her forearms and cheeks, and branches that whipped and lashed at her back furiously, she kept on going on all fours. Mysteriously, spiked vines latched onto her legs, chaining her back, piercing through clothing and skin alike as if it were rice paper. The last vestige of her strength was spent desperately plucking the vines from her feet, her hands bleeding rapidly in the process.

The vines tugged her backwards, towards where she started from, with all the force of a moving train. Finally, she couldn't hold out any more. The muscles in her arm were up to tearing point, and it felt as if her shoulder was going to pop out of its socket. She let go of the root that she was holding, and submitted to the vines dragging her roughly across the ground. Dried leaves curled up and combusted right in front of her very eyes, leaving scorch marks all across her face, neck and shoulders.

After being tugged for what felt like eternity, with fifty more cuts and bruises to add to the list, she was in a clearing. The vines that wrapped around her legs tugged her upwards, such that she was hanging upside down. Her hair fell downwards in a wild tangled mop. Blood trickled past her cheeks, right down beside her eye, and into her hairline. Looking downwards, hoping for some sign of relief, she saw something unexpected.

Is that my axe?

She stretched as hard as she could, reaching all the way down, fingers flexing rapidly, but the tips of her fingers were just a mere inch away from the wooden handle of the silvery gleaming axe. The axe was taunting her. It was so tantalizing – what would be her salvation was just this close to fruition. In her mind's eye, she could picture herself hacking at the vines with her axe. With her bare hands, she wouldn't stand a chance.

Come on – just a bit more –

Wait, she thought as a shrill echoed through the forest. She stopped stretching for the axe, slumping down. What's that noise?

As if right on cue, a rainbow bird burst out in a shower of multicoloured sparks. It settled on the tree branch where she was hanging from, and twitted loudly, a clear, piercing note that sent shivers down her spine. Its call was echoed by a few hundred others, and the sky temporarily darkened as a giant flock of rainbow birds blocked the sunlight. The giant flock circled around the clearing like a hurricane waiting to strike.

Without warning, the rainbow bird which was calmly perched on the branch just a few seconds ago flew straight for her eyes. If she didn't have the reflexes, the bird would have been successful in pecking out her eyeball. As it was, the bird was calmly pecking on her finger nails. In one sudden, coordinated movement, every one of the rainbow birds that hung back in the sky flew straight to her and started pecking whatever surface they could. Instantly, the pain hit her like a force-five gale. It felt as if she had been thrown into a sea of needles that were all primed to pierce through her flesh. No matter how she turned, twisted, and writhed in agony, the pain wouldn't lessen. In a matter of seconds, she was reduced to a mass of flesh, blood, and bone, held together by nothing save a few tendons. Almost all her skin was ripped and torn to bits.

My axe – my axe – ! She could completely imagine her taking down all the birds in one go. It wouldn't be a problem.

It was barely out of reach. And no one was here to save her. All she could do was just to clench and unclenched her fist that was so close to the axe while the rainbow birds peck on every single appendage that they could find. While she was still alive and could feel every single attack they did.

Please – just kill me and let it be done with, she begged in her mind. Was it in her mind, though? Or was she shouting it out?

Through her blurry sight, impaired with lack of oxygen and all the blood and tears flowing freely across it, she saw a distant figure. The figure approached close and showed its face.

It was her. She was her, unharmed, flawless, healthy. And yet, she was also assaulted to torture of the worst ever imaginable. She saw her healthy self stare straight at her demented, broken self. Without breaking the gaze filled with hatred, she bent down and picked up the axe. She raised it high over her head and swung it down towards herself –

Her eyelids jerked open, eyeballs swiveling around in their sockets. The sheets stuck to her body, slicked with sweat in every pore. She shivered involuntary, not due to the temperature of the room but the raw fear that coursed through her body from her nightmare. Hyperventilating for a few seconds, she cradled her heads in her hands and forced herself to calm down. Breathing deeply and exhaling slowly, she managed to get herself silent and composed.

It wasn't the first time she was haunted by such nightmares. It wasn't the fifth, it wasn't the fiftieth time. The number of times nightmares appeared were way above, in the hundreds – she lost count over four hundred and fifty. The Games were gone, but the nightmares lived on. And she knew that there was nothing that she could do about it. Therapy, counseling, even morphling were all useless. That was the secret price to pay for winning the games, which no one, save the remaining victors, knew. A life's worth of supplies of the most luxurious imaginable – packaged with a life's worth of emotional torture and suffering. She giggled to herself, half-insane.

But then, who wasn't insane from winning the Games? Who could stomach all the bloodshed and the gore? Who could go through all that without losing their marbles? Nobody.

Her bout of giggling stopped abruptly, as she heard a noise at the windowsill. A soft hooting noise, followed by sharp pecks against the window pane. Peeling off the sheets from her sticky skin, she walked over and threw the curtains open.

The black bead of the rainbow bird's eye stared straight at her.

Screaming hysterically, she yanked the curtains shut with such force that they were ripped off from their hangings. As the curtains settled to the floor in a cloud of dust, she could see a pigeon, white as snow, with a scroll of paper tied to its leg.

Hallucinations even when I'm awake. Sigh.

Opening the windows, the pigeon flew into the room, shedding feathers all over the carpet. Alighting on her arm, it gave her an affectionate light nibble on the shoulder. Johanna jerked away from the contact, nearly throwing the bird off. She was half-expecting the pigeon to change its plumage and start pecking out her eyes. Her screams were suppressed as if they were physically plunged down her throat, resulting in a disturbing gargling noise.

With a shaky hand, she slowly plucked out the tied note attached to the pigeon's claw. Satisfied with completing its task, the pigeon circled her room before flying out of the window and into the distant skyline. She watched it go, scroll of paper forgotten.

Wish I could be as free of that from my thoughts.

After zoning out for five minutes, she realised she held a message in her hand. Slipping under the protection of her sheets, she unfolded and read the message tucked neatly in her palm. Two words only.

"Final meeting."

Behind was a rendezvous timing and location.

"2330h, Victors' Village Square."

She almost missed the post-script that was written in the tiniest handwriting possible. "Wear some decent clothes," she read out.

Plutarch sure has a sense of humour, she thought as she threw open her dust-filled wardrobe, selecting a suitable dress to wear.