[Purposefully, she does not look at Kate, in case she does see something worth hating. It's not worth it, not right now. Give her ten minutes, and she'll be snarling and in full denial, but right now, laying on her back, as wrung out as an old flannel face cloth--]

Everything. [It comes out raspy. She coughs, without so much as lifting a hand to cover her mouth. And she laughs after, just as dry.] But it always ends the same.

[And it always will, she thinks, and there are whole years attached to that always, year after year after year. She keeps her eyes shut. The inside of her eyes looks black and velvety. It's almost calming.]

They were torturing me, before I came here. Me and Peeta. Enobaria. Annie Cresta.

[The names feel thick on her tongue. Kate is still quite close to her, close enough that she can hear her breathing. This is very real.]