How long has it been? Three years now? Four? Ten? I can never be sure. They won't let me remember, they won't let me forget that they control me. I want so badly to remember, so I write it all down. All of it, every word and thought that seemingly comes from nowhere I keep tucked away so that I can know what my own thoughts really sound like. I know that I write these things, but sometimes I forget. I forget because they make me. What I remember I remember because I make myself.
I came back from them just an hour ago. My head felt funny after but I think that has happened before too. I found a key on the necklace swinging against my shirt and I got a little curious. I found this book after a while of searching, though it didn't take long. Who could have missed the large keyhole on the desk? Not me, I think a part of me started to remember when I saw that.
The book isn't very long, but the thing that took me the longest time to understand was why someone had signed my name on the bottom of every entry. First I just thought that it was a coincidence, that could happen right? But then why would the book have been locked up? Books aren't harmful with teeth or quills, what kind of reason could there be for it to be so well contained? It didn't occur to me until later that maybe books can be dangerous in a completely different way.
I don't even know why I am writing all of this down. I think it's because of what I read on the first page, the only page that I reread and reread several times. It told me that I wrote this, signed by a signature that looks so much like mine it's identical. If I wrote this book then I have to finish it. There are still so many pages left blank.
I heard the doctor's talking during my appointment, or after it if I remember right which I can't be sure I do. They said they didn't know why the 'treatments' didn't seem to be permanent on me. I don't know why this feels important enough to mention, but they said that every time I come back I am more and more broken. I don't know what they're talking about, really. I don't feel broken, I just feel a little off- maybe a little confused as well. Someone had to show me to my home after I left because I couldn't remember. Somehow I think that this is something that a person should remember.
This feels ridiculous. I'm talking to a book as if it can answer these questions. Books can't do that. Books aren't able to help me remember the holes that I keep falling into. Memory holes. Parts of memories that I cannot grasp fully. This book tells me that this has happened before, that it's normal when I come back from the doctor and that I will remember if I really think about it. It feels better to write it down here- at least what I remember anyway.
My name is Segan Tress.
I am twenty-two years old.
I come from District Eleven.
I was in the Hunger Games.
I won the Hunger Games.
That's all I know for sure. This book has lots of other things that I don't remember, but they're all signed with my name and my handwriting. All of the entries start the same way as this one seems to. The author that may or may not be me always begins confused, but by the end of it there's always something. I hope this works. I want to remember. Maybe if I write down what this book tells me about myself things will come together.
I won the forty-eighth Hunger Games when I was sixteen years old.
I killed two of my allies in their sleep and the other one a day later.
I went crazy in the arena, killing at least four people in the process.
I felt so guilty about this that I tried to kill myself seven times.
The Capitol found out and they didn't like that.
Nothing they threatened me with worked.
They executed my family and friends.
I only tried harder to leave.
They wouldn't let me go.
They want to fix me.
It's not working.
There is more, so much more. Scattered memories that the different entries tell me slipped through the treatments. The names of my parents and siblings. A half-completed description of a place that is supposed to be my home, a place that looks absolutely nothing like where I am right now. I'm even more confused. Who am I? Where am I? Why won't they let me remember? Why won't I let myself forget?
I remember something now. I have to write it down now before it goes away again.
I am Segan Tress. I used to live in District Eleven before the Capitol moved me to help with the treatment. I have been treated over thirty times but it never has worked completely. Everyone that knows about me has nicknamed me the "Broken One". I know that I am broken.
I also know that there is no one that can fix me. I will always be broken. I will never be whole.
When I finish I will put this book back where I found it. I will lock the door and I will put the key back around my neck. I will try again tonight, but if I fail I know I will try again. I am simply nothing more than a broken doll. They can rearrange the pieces, they can glue me back together, but eventually it will be too much. They will drop me one too many times, and I will finally shatter.
A/N: Just a one shot that I decided to write, hope you all enjoy and I will try and put up a real update eventually.