Blood and Ashes

A pregnant Katniss is forced to fight in the Quater Quell with Haymitch. Who will survive in the war to overthrow the Capitol? Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, do not own the Hunger Games, or any of the characters in this fanfiction. All rights go to Suzanne Collins. Read my fanfiction: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11929888/1/Blood-and-Ashes

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21. Contempt

I dream of red. The sand in the Quarter Quell is dyed a dark red hue from the blood around my thighs. I feel a horrible stab of pain, but my confused, foggy mind can't tell whether it's in my abdomen, or my head. Maybe it's both. The scene around me shifts and I'm in the hospital bed, holding my son in my arms. His tiny mouth opens into a wide 'O' and he begins to cry. Suddenly, the sound isn't coming from Rye, but from a Jabberjay sitting on the metal railing of the bed. The sound slowly morphs into a scream and I recognise the voice: Johanna. I call her name, but it doesn't stop. I put my hands over my ears, desperately trying to make it stop. A voice whispers my name, the deep, gravelly tone makes my blood run cold. President Snow.

I sit bolt upright and take in a shaky breath. Rye is lying awake in the little cot next to me, his tiny fingers clasping a little toy Prim made for him. A Mockingjay. The doctors made Peeta sleep in a little side room next-door to mine and he reluctantly agreed.

I quickly write him a note on the whiteboard on Rye's cot and carefully pick up my baby. His beautiful grey eyes look up into mine. He looks so much like Peeta, although I can see some of my features in his face. I am in absolute awe of how… perfect he is. How can a damaged, unstable murderer create such an amazing thing?

I wrap another blanket around Rye and cuddle him to my chest. My body still aches a lot, but there is something I have to do. His tiny legs are folded underneath his stomach and I hold his head upright with one hand, my other supports his bottom. His fine, blond hair is so soft.

I use my elbow to open the door and begin to walk down the corridor to the high dependency wing of the hospital from maternity. The eerie silence is deafening and the lighting is white and overly bright. My hands shake and I clutch him against me tightly.

What feels like hours later, I approach a door with a screen behind it so you can't see what's behind the glass. Rye has fallen asleep and his head lolls against my chest. My breathing speeds up and I clench my fist. My fingers close on the cold metal of the door handle. I push the door open and see someone sitting in a plastic chair bolted to the floor. A monitor beeps incessantly.

"Johanna," I whisper.

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