Chapter 11

 I woke in a large, sea green room, the ceiling hanging low.

The bed I was laying in was a dark blue and tucked in a corner, surrounded by little sketches of fish and beaches.  The carpet was a sandy color, only adding to my thoughts this was not in the Capitol, although that was where I swear I remember being sent to. A white closet hung open, showing clothes, but as I gazed deeper into it, I could see riding boots, a soccer ball, and possibly a skateboard. A pile of climbing gear was heaped into another corner of the room next to a table that was neatly stacked with a few papers. This room feels too . . . used . . . to be just a temporary room. What is going on? And that’s when I saw the note sitting on the chair next to the bed.

Wilson is coming to see you at four. Please be ready to talk to him.

I glanced at the clock which read 3:30. Swearing, I ran around trying to find clothes that fit me. The thought that this was not a Capitol room was disregarded in my rush and next thing I knew was the door being knocked on. The person who breezes in like it was nothing was the last person I expected.

It was President Wilson.

“Please sit down; thank you for letting me into your room.”

I stopped, completely confused. “Wait, my room? I thought we were back in the Capitol . . . .”

He laughed loudly. “They said you would react this way. I thought it was best to have you confused and then explain everything in black and white.

“You were never in The Games. They never existed, and neither did that world.” By the look on my face, he continued to go on with more examples of “not existing” things in my memory. “The Districts aren’t real; all those people you ‘killed’ were never alive.” He paused before continuing.

“All of your memories are not real.”

Some would say that their world fell away, but I couldn’t say that. I was frozen. My world spun, but didn’t fall to bits. I was only aware of those few words.

“All of your memories are not real.”

I felt as if I was sucker punched in the gut. I refused to believe it. “That’s not true! Dad, Mom, everyone! They died! How could they not be real? I felt pain; I saw the blood; heard the screams, smelled that forest, and I know I tasted that foul Logan. It was too real for it not to be. You can’t do this to me: It’s not fair!” I cried.

“Please calm down; I said I would explain, so let me do just that.” He shut his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and began the heart breaking tale of my life. My true life.

“It began about two years ago . . . .”

To Be Continued . . .